


The Online Dating

by callmelyss



Category: Crash Pad (2017), Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Attempt at Humor, Fluff, Holidays, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kissing, Kylux Adjacent Ship, M/M, Stensland's Endless Stream of Profanity, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-11 22:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16861366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: Stensland paused at the last screen, which mercifully had only one blinking message in the inbox, beckoning like a will-o'-the-wisp.I am sorry,read the reply,I received an e-mail notification about your message. But I must be on this website by mistake. I never signed up for it. My sister probably did it. I apologize for the misunderstanding. Sincerely, Clyde Logan.—Stens signs up for a dating site for hopeless romantics and makes an unexpected connection.





	The Online Dating

**Author's Note:**

  * For [squire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squire/gifts).



> Hello Squire!
> 
> I hope this satisfies your craving for adjacent fluff. Happy holidays!

It began, as so many life-changing moments and caper movies do, with a list on the refrigerator:

  1. _set reasonable goals_
  2. _believe in yourself_
  3. _get a better apartment (nicer landlord/lady/person)_
  4. _never binge drink again_
  5. _help people (you’re good at it)_
  6. _make more friends (who don’t binge drink)_
  7. _find love_



Stensland was aware that the last condition (underlined three times) may have violated the first condition (underlined twice)—that finding love may not in itself be a reasonable goal, whatever Oprah and the Hallmark Channel promised—but he wasn’t going to give up on it just yet. He arrived home from having reunited Grady and Morgan, sans one pant leg and one roommate, true, but with a renewed sense of purpose. He could do this. He could live the kind of life he wanted, not the life he’d been told he should have, the one he really fucking wanted. Board games on Thursday nights. No more Muumuu banging on his door. Someone to hold his hand because they wanted to, because they goddammn meant it, not for any other reason.

 

* * *

 

He attacked the list with that sense of purpose at first, with all the steely-eyed determination of Liam Neeson rescuing a kidnapped daughter (but how many times?). Once he got his first paycheck from Soft Solutions, he checked rental listings and the community boards, met with potential roommates, and eventually signed a lease in Belltown with a mild-mannered computer programmer who didn’t object to the smell of Willie Nelson and liked 90s television. Oscar wasn’t Lyle, at least in that he didn’t try to mother him, and they weren’t _quite_ friends, but he didn’t throw ragers either and never stole his Mr. Bubble and didn’t ask uncomfortable questions about the list, carefully affixed to the new fridge with a strawberry-shaped magnet. Plus, he joined in when Stensland started his biweekly _Dawson’s Creek_ parties (an impressive number of Grady’s poker night friends also attended; apparently it had made an impression—but of course it did, it was a fucking classic).

It was easy, then, to sink into that sense of accomplishment, to feel like he’d adequately tackled the list for now. After all, he had to be reasonable, and his job gave him the chance to help people every day, to show them a friendly face, and he already knew the names of repeat customers, welcomed them back as he had always been welcomed at the store, even when he didn’t buy anything.

The trouble started when he went out for drinks with Denise and the girls. It was a pleasant bit of nostalgia, heading back to the old neighborhood, to the old jazz club, sipping syrupy, chartreuse concoctions with his favorite set of no-nonsense ladies and shooting the shit. And yes, he drank, but not _so_ much, held himself to a strict four-cocktail maximum, despite the inevitable wheedling and teasing. _Oh, Stens has become respectable on us_.

Nonetheless, he forgot three key facts: 1) foregoing alcohol lowers a man’s tolerance 2) the club’s bartenders mixed their drinks stronger than an ill-intentioned fraternity brother and 3) he was tragically light of weight even on his best, most practiced drinking days.

 Still, he made it into his Uber and to his apartment safe and sound. No real harm done.

 

* * *

 

The next day, a _ping_ from his laptop unceremoniously and unkindly woke Stensland an hour before his alarm. The computer was a new addition, provided at cost from Oscar, who liked to do custom builds and had been intrigued by the possibility of creating a setup that would work for someone as irredeemably Luddite as Stens was. (So far he had mostly used it to read Joey/Pacey fanfiction and correct Philistines on message boards.) “Diabolical contraption,” he groaned at it, feeling each subsequent chime in the center of the pulsating mass that was currently his cerebrum. “ _Quiet_ , damn you, I would like to die in peace, Siri,” he begged it, shoving it off the side of the bed in hopes of silencing it for good. But it landed open, and the light from the screen attacked his poor desiccated, aching retinas with all the force of an oncoming meteor.

That’s when he saw them—dozens of tabs open. Dozens of websites.

Dozens of _dating_ websites.

He scrubbed his face. Slowly, part of the previous night’s conversation came back to him.

_I believe it, though, that there’s someone for everyone, that we can all find our Sally Albright or our Kathleen Kelly or our Vivian Ward if we look hard enough. But what if my soulmate doesn’t even live in Seattle? What if they’re in El Paso or Istanbul or Buenos Aires?_

_There’s always the internet, Stensy_ , Ella reminded him.

 _But you_ hate _online dating. You said it was worse than water torture._ Water torture,  _Ella_.

Denise interjected, _Only way to do it in this day and age, if you think about it._

_So I should what, download Tindr and forget finding any real human connection? Have women reject me based on an algorithm? Let Skynet pick my sex partners?_

_Oh, there are all sorts of sites and apps. Some of them are for making friends._

_I do want to make more friends._

He had been drunk, yes. Although evidently not so drunk he couldn’t create a few dozen accounts before he passed out. _Ping, ping, ping_ , his computer insisted. Stensland retrieved it from the floor and squinted at the screen. A rectangular chat box popped up in the corner. Not so drunk he couldn’t message people either. He moaned. What sort of godawful gibberish had he sent ‘round the world wide web last night? _have you been covered with beeees recently? because you look sweeeeeter than honey_

To which he had been met, a little undeservedly, even with the abuse of the ‘e’ key, he thought, with _fuck off, you little albino creep_

Which, that was a new one, he'd give her that. Still. “I’m ginger, not _Powder_ ,” he snapped, churlish, at the screen.

Stensland spent the better part of an hour writing apologies and retractions and deleting his new accounts, despite the incessant barrage of _Are you sure?_ messages. Jesus, these companies wanted to hold onto you, even the free ones. He knew this wasn’t the way to find the person he wanted to be with—the last thing he needed was for people to be able to judge him _before_ he opened his mouth.

He paused at the last screen, which mercifully had only one blinking message in the inbox, beckoning like a will-o'-the-wisp. _I am sorry_ , read the reply, _I received an e-mail notification about your message. But_ _I must be on this website by mistake. I never signed up for it. My sister probably did it_.  _I apologize for the misunderstanding. Sincerely, Clyde Logan._

He pulled a face; he could certainly relate. He scrolled back to his own cringe-worthy introduction, which had been: 

_Hello_

_Handsome_

_How are you this fine evening?_

Probably there had been rum in the cocktail last night; tropical drinks always brought out his aggressively bisexual side. He did his best to keep it under wraps usually; the last thing he needed was to be rejected by _all_ the genders and likely also punched in the face for his trouble. Not that his forwardness had seemed to bother this particular recipient of his virtual attentions. 

He clicked on the little user picture; a pair of doleful hazel eyes looked back at him, as though both pained and resigned to the fact that a photograph was going to be taken whether he liked it or not. It was a kind face, Stens decides, especially the sheepishness around the eyebrows. Long, thick dark hair. A generous mouth.

No, even semi-plastered, his taste definitely hadn’t been questionable, at least. Clyde Logan  _was_ handsome.

 _actually i’m sorry_ ,  he wrote back. _i may have signed up for this website in a wee bit of an inebriated state. i hope i didn’t you make you feel too uncomfortable_. After Hannah’s advice, he’d been thinking about that more, avoiding making people uneasy. He was getting better; he had only told the barista at his new coffeeshop one embarrassing story this week. Well, two, if he counted the one about the turtle and the wetland theme park. (Probably he should. There was nudity involved.) _i won’t bother you anymore_.

He was ready to press the ‘delete account’ link hidden at the bottom of the page when a new message popped up. _That is u_ _nderstandable. And no offense taken_.

And maybe it was scrolling through a solid hundred messages that were either brusque—and often profanity-laden—rejections or invitations to come by and get his surviving gray matter fucked out, or maybe the aspirin and water were starting to kick in, lifting his spirits, but he wrote back: _thank you for not yelling at me_

The response came slowly. _Why would I yell at you?_  

Stensland chuckled to himself, relieved when the sound didn’t send more agony ricocheting through his head. _you’d be surprised_

 _I suppose I would. I don’t spend too much time on the internets_ , Clyde wrote back.

_good choice, it sucks wobbly sweaty scrotum_

He added: _why would your sister sign you up for a website like this without telling you?_

_She only meant to help, I'm sure. She worries._

_i guess that’s not such a bad thing, having a family that cares about you_. Stens didn’t have much in the way of family left himself. He hadn’t heard from his father in over a year; his cousins and aunts and uncles were all back in Ireland, posting their happy vacation photos and wedding and baby announcements on Facebook. It felt like a direct attack on his chronic lack of the same sometimes.

They chatted for a while more before Stensland caught sight of the little clock in the corner of his screen. Much longer and he’d be late. _sorry, i have to go…but it was nice meeting you. maybe i won’t delete this one right away. if you won’t_

He hadn’t even checked what sort of site it was. True Romantics dot com, read the title bar. Well, it suited him at least. He didn’t know if it suited Clyde or not. He waited, feeling strangely pensive, for him to reply.

 _It wouldn’t hurt to keep it for a while, I guess._  

Then, after another beat:

 _Nice meeting you, too_.

 

* * *

 

In the first two weeks of their acquaintance, Stensland learned the following about Clyde Logan:

He had a brother, Jimmy, and sister, Mellie. Jimmy worked at Lowes. Mellie was a hairdresser professionally and a speed demon vocationally.

He lived in a southern county in West Virginia. (Stens had to look it up on Google Maps.)

He always wrote complete, properly punctuated sentences, but he did so slowly because he typed one-handed (he hadn’t got the trick of typing with his prosthetic just yet, he said).

He was a transradial amputee because an IED had blown off his hand in Iraq. 

He didn’t especially like to talk about Iraq. (Stensland didn’t press him.)

He was a bartender; he said Stens should drink cocktails with less sugar in them if he wanted to avoid the hangovers. ( _probably won’t happen, i have the sweet tooth—well, beak—of a hummingbird_ ).

Clyde liked to read, mostly historical nonfiction but also poetry; he was interested in genealogy and oral history (Stens had not made a joke, of which he was particularly proud); he had not been many places other than West Virginia and the surrounding states, Fort Bragg, and Iraq. He listened to Bob Seger and John Denver. He promised to download some Billy Ocean at the first opportunity. He asked Stensland thoughtful questions about Ireland, why he left, and whether he liked Seattle. _usually_ , he wrote. _there’s a lot to do in the city, but sometimes there’s too much to do. if that makes sense_

 _It does. Like trying to pick an ice cream flavor or what to watch on television_.

Clyde did not often understand his pop culture references, although he had at least known who Katie Holmes was. _Didn’t she marry that short, jumpy guy?_ Sometimes he asked Stensland to explain; other times he simply took it in stride. He seemed willing to take most of his eccentricities in stride.

Above all, Stens learned that Clyde Logan was exceptionally easy to talk to—even for someone like him, who had no trouble whatsoever talking to anyone, at length, often until they fled in exasperation or horror. Clyde didn't.

 _i didn’t know your bartender powers worked over the internet_ , he told him after he had relayed the abridged version of everything that had happened with Morgan and Grady. Omitting the hobo’s boot and the fact that he’d wiped his ass with Grady’s suit and anything to do with anti-fungal shampoo, among other things. _i feel like you should be here polishing glasses with a rag or something, like in cheers_

 _You’re easy to talk to, too_ , Clyde replied. _Most people aren’t_.

He’d beamed at that, the reflection of it in his computer screen. A refreshing change, not to be told he should shut up more often.

They spoke most frequently in the morning before Stensland went to work; this was also when Clyde tended to get up, despite the three-hour time difference. Such were the trials of working at a bar, Stens gathered. Or the benefits, maybe. It did mean Clyde had usually gone to work when he returned from Soft Solutions. Sometimes Stens left him a note about his day; sometimes when he opened his computer in the morning, he found a response waiting for him, which meant Clyde had stayed up to write back to him at two in the morning.

It was nice. It was number six on his list:  _make more friends_.

 

* * *

 

Stens dropped heavily onto his bed. It had been a long day; they’d gotten in new stock, which had to be learned, tested, arranged, and cataloged, and a distraught woman had come in to return a love seat. Her fiancé, with whom she’d bought it, had found someone else to share a love seat with, as the euphemism went, and Stensland spent the better part of an hour both trying to process the return while also letting her cry on him. He didn’t mind, really; he knew better than most people the importance of a good cry and respected its place in the post-relationship grieving process, but they had run out of tissues partway through, and his shirt collar was uncomfortably damp the rest of the day, and he had to explain that the tear stains on his tie really weren’t his, no, really, they weren’t this time. Still: _help people_. He tried.

For the most part, he wanted to fire up the bong and the VCR and lose himself in the trials and tribulations of a verbose gaggle of New England teens, but he also wanted to talk to Clyde. Or talk _at_ Clyde, since he had most likely already left for work.

To his surprise, once he’d relayed his tale of woe (and excessive mucus), the bobbling ellipses indicated that Clyde was online and typing.

 _Not always the easiest thing, listening_ , he observed.

Stensland let out a breath, feeling some of his distress leave him. _have any tips?_  

 _I’m sure you did just fine_. Then, after a pause: _Want to talk about it?_

It took him a moment to understand that Clyde meant actually _talk_ with vocal cords and faces and everything. _don’t you have work?_

 _I have the night off_. Then: _If you don’t want to, that’s okay_.

_no, i’d love to talk to you_

And maybe there was something to read into in his phrasing but who cared? He wasn’t some grunting he-man who pretended to have no feelings except lust and rage (and hardly differentiated between the two). And Oscar was out; he didn’t really have anyone he could casually rant to or confide in or any of the things you’re supposed to be able to do with friends _._ Lyle, more apt to lecture than listen, hardly counted. And the baristas were catching wise when they asked how he was.

It took True Romantics’ video chat a minute to connect, two signals crossing the country, three cartoon pink hearts flashing in sequence until another window opened and: there was Clyde.

He had known Clyde Logan was handsome. He had had the sense, too, that Clyde was not a fainting violet or any other kind of swooning bouquet accent, given the military service and rural bartenderdom, which he assumed required a heaping helping of traditional, testosterone-oozing masculinity. He was not entirely prepared, however, for the broad shoulders and jaw-droppingly—quite literally, he felt his mouth fall open—sculpted chest, which even the most robust flannel shirt on the market could not hope to conceal, although it was doing its damnedest, it well and truly was.

In short, Clyde was an honest-to-Jesus, dyed-in-the-denim, holy-fucking-shit-his- _arms_ -for-fuck’s-sake specimen. And those were just the parts he could see.

“‘lo there,” he said, eyes sort of crinkling, in amusement or shyness Stensland’s couldn’t rightly say, but it did make him feel sort of pudding-like around the middle, like maybe he had custard instead of a spine.

Stensland couldn’t rightly say anything at the moment; when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a sort of faint creaking noise, like a rusty hinge.

Clyde tilted his head and hit a few buttons, adjusted his screen. “You there?”

He jolted back to himself. “Yes! Hi, hello, fuck, sorry, wow, there are you are, hi. Wow. Hi.”

“Uh, yeah. If you would prefer for to not to—” He shifted. Looked like maybe he was regretting this already, and maybe for good reason, since he was being openly ogled like a slab of Texas beef. (Although a slab of Texas beef _wished_ , holy bovine moly.) _Get a hold of yourself Stensy, just because he’s built like the best brick house you’ve ever seen and you want to move in immediately._

“No!” he yelped. “No, sorry. I don’t do this very much. I’m a rank novice at the ways of internet communication.”

“‘salright, so am I,” Clyde reminded him.

And that baritone, that was doing something to him, too. He made it an effort to focus. He hadn’t anticipated the accent; intellectually, he had understood that Clyde must have one, but he hadn’t been able to picture it. It was pleasant, though, sort of slow and unspooling and twangy in places, like a plucked guitar string. 

“Couldn’t picture how you would sound,” Clyde said, echoing his thought. He spoke as carefully as he typed. Deliberate. Like he was weighing each word.

“What, not like a loquacious, foul-mouthed leprechaun?”

He shook his head. “‘course not. You have a nice voice.”

Stens stared. He was trying to remember the last time anyone had told him he was nice to listen after being in his company for more than five minutes. Usually, he didn’t let it trouble him; his approach to life in general was to let as much roll off his back as possible. He was a duck, the world so much water. After all, it wasn’t like he could become a completely different person, even if he wanted to, only a better version of himself. Although he probably should stop talking about sex in elevators. Not talking about having sex in elevators, but talking about sex while in elevators, a key distinction.

Clyde nodded gravely, and yes, he had indeed said all that out loud. Well, fucking fuckity fuck, he probably sounded like a right arsehole.

It wasn’t his verbal filter malfunctioned so much as he was born without one. His mother said once that he carried his thoughts around in his mouth instead of his brain.

Clyde chuckled. “My ma was a little like that, too. She had a way of puttin’ things.”

Stens smiled back.

"Tell me more about your day? I can go get a rag and a glass if it helps."

 

* * *

 

In that way, messaging Clyde became messaging Clyde and chatting with him once a week. And then chatting twice a week. And then Oscar saying, _wow, you’re spending a lot of time in your room alone online,_ with the not-so-subtle insinuation he was watching pornography and doodling his noodle _._ (Little did he know Stensland preferred aerobics videos to anything so crass, or that his masturbatory venue of choice was the shower. He didn’t correct him.) And then they were chatting three times a week. And then—

“Hang on,” Stens said, headfirst in his closet. “I know my tie is in here somewhere.”

“Isn’t that it on the doorknob?” Clyde asked from the laptop’s perch on the bed. “That red one?”

“Aha! Brilliant, thank you,” Stens said and dropped it around his neck, reaching to tighten the knot. “You’re a lifesaver, Clyde Logan. A watermelon one. To wit: the good kind.”

“Er,” Clyde said. Pointedly. As pointedly as Clyde ever said anything, which would still make a melted-down butterknife look sharp. 

He looked down. Oh, right. He was shirtless. And in his boxers. “HA,” he said, blushing. “That would have been a real workplace faux pas, regular anxiety dream fodder on par with a naked graduation speech, wouldn’t it?” Trying not to scramble to cover his scrawny, weird, hairless chest and, to his constant chagrin, overly perky nipples. _Play it cool, Stensy._ He snatched his collared shirt from the floor and shrugged it on. Stepped into his pants. “What plans do you have today?”

“Nothin’ much before work,” Clyde told him, as if Stens walked around shirtless as a regular thing. As if he didn’t notice or else didn’t mind. “Gonna go pick out a Thanksgiving ham with Jimmy later. There’s a farmer over the state line still does ‘em right.”

“Thanksgiving, of course,” Stensland said, as he buttoned. It was what—a week or so away now? He had been invited to some friends' houses over the years since he moved to the States, although he had found it was mostly an exercise in yelling at sports while long-suffering mothers and wives prepared starch-heavy food in the kitchen. “That’s a big event for the Logan clan?”

“Big as any I ‘spose,” he shrugged. “Food, board games, that sorta thing. Little more crowded than it was with the blended family and all. What about you? Got plans? Work?”

He shook his head. “Soft Solutions doesn’t do Black Friday's stampeding, discount murder games, bless them. And my roommate will be headed back to Michigan for his own turkey and cranberry sauce. I expect I’ll spend a quiet day in, hang out in my jammies and watch the Macy’s Day Parade if I’m feeling festive.”

A long pause followed; he hoped he hadn’t mis-buttoned his shirt.

“You could come here.”

Stensland’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Not that you gotta. It being short notice at all.” Clyde rubbed the back of his neck. Sheepish. “But it don’t seem right, having nowhere to go, when everyone else is with family.”

“That’s—“ His eyes welled up; a sizable lump made its home in his throat. He sniffled, tried to play it off as a snort, then made himself sneeze. _Bless you_ , Clyde murmured. “Fuck. That’s the nicest offer I’ve ever gotten. You sure you want to expose your family to this? I’ve heard tell of little pitchers and their big ears and there's a lot here to collect.”

“I’m sure. You think on it,” Clyde told him. “But you’d better get going or you’ll be late.”

Stens looked at the clock and cursed. Ran a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it. “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

Think on it he did. The rest of the day. And the following day. Clyde, ever the soul of chivalry, not completely dead it seemed, didn’t pressure him for an answer when they spoke. Stensland figured the prohibitive cost of a plane ticket would make the decision for him, but Clyde offered to help with that, too. “Have some, er, inheritance money. Don’t mind puttin’ it to good use.”

He talked it over with Denise and the girls. With Oscar. With his coworkers. With more than a few customers. Every rotation of baristas. His _Dawson’s Creek_ watch group (they were near the end of season three; it was about to get really good). Opinions varied; the girls, in particular, were split. Ella thought it was a bad idea and said so— _you want to get stuck out in the middle of nowhere when things get weird?_

 _Your cynicism is a testament to the extreme depersonalization of Information Age_ , Stensland said. He’d read that in a magazine, another article about irredeemably deadbeat millennials like himself.

And—truth be told, he did worry about that a little. It’s not like he was especially impressive, perennial underachiever and implausibly big dreamer he was. He was well and truly stuck on the question, eating Irish stew in the kitchen, until he caught sight of his list on the door. _Believe in yourself_. He was, after all, the same Stensland who had run across Seattle in half of a pair of pants to reunite Morgan and Grady, in the name of true love and happy endings and Disney and everything the jewelry store commercials sold you. Which settled it.

“So that’s how I ended up here,” Stens finishes, gesturing grandly at the crowded economy class of a Southwest Airlines 737. Sort of an abbreviated grand gesture, out of respect for his seatmate and the slumbering octogenarian across the aisle, also in danger of getting clocked if he moves too much. “Um. What was your question again?”

His neighbor, a dark-haired woman in a pink cardigan named Gleema—she occupies that hazy middle ground in age where he isn’t sure if she will hate him by default or try to adopt him on the spot—blinks behind her glasses. “I asked if you mind if I listen to my podcasts,” she says. “But that. That’s quite a story. My goodness. You two sound perfect for each other. I hope it goes well. Although Lord knows long distance ain’t easy. Bless you both.” 

“Oh, no,” he corrects her, seeing her mistake. “Clyde and I are only friends. I know that part’s probably confusing, seeing how we met on a dating website, like you could write the voice-over for the romantic comedy with _that_ premise without breaking a gentle sweat, but he’s only being kind. He’s a good person, that’s all.”

She gawks at him. “He invited you to Thanksgiving.”

“Does that have a cultural connotation in Appalachia I’m unaware of, like I’ve unwittingly agreed to be given away in marriage or—?”

“With his family.”

“They’re very kind, too.”

“You talked for half an hour about his shoulders.”

“I was painting a picture!” Stens insists. “Imagery’s important, you know. Have to set the scene, or it’s just a dull recounting. Who wants to listen to that, I ask you, Gleema.”

She shoots him a long, dubious look, over her glasses. “If you say so, honey. But I can tell you, if the online dating had gone half so well for me, I wouldn’t get the queasy burps every time I hear the words OKCupid.”

Their conversation turns to other things after that, including an iPhone slideshow of Gleema’s cats, a veritable parade of photogenic felines, many of whom were in costume and profoundly vexed about it. He doesn’t think about what she’s said. He _does_ start to have his own bout of the queasy burps. Although it's probably the turbulence. Unrelated to thoughts of certain soft-spoken bartenders.

 

* * *

 

His stomach has entirely given over to butterflies by the time the plane lands. It seems likely he’s made some horrible mistake here, or they both have. After all, no one is exactly as they present themselves online, even if Clyde has seen him with bedhead and shirtless and hungover ( _never binge drink again_  is turning out to be a work in progress). Even if he knows about bitch hips and shower vomits and everything, even, by now, the hobo’s boot. Even if. Something about Stensland will be an unpleasant surprise. It's inevitable.

Then again, Clyde knew all that and he’d asked him to come here anyway.

Stens almost wishes he’d checked a bag. It would give him time to—something. What was the appropriate something? Not what all the movies said, probably. That kind of thing gets you tackled by uniformed men with tasers.

Maybe he could just get back on the plane.

But Clyde invited him, and he is as much a man of his word as he can be, provided he remembers what day of the week it is. (He has, however, _never_ missed an unexcused day at Soft Solutions, thank you very fucking much, Mr. Laframboise, and they give him real vacations and health insurance. What a goddamn world.)

So he heads through the gate with all the bravery a man of his word should have, although honestly he's somewhere between _I’m going to throw up_ and _Please let it only be hiccups_.

It’s the work of about a minute to spot Clyde, who’s almost a head taller than everyone else here, although not _too_ much taller than Stensland, so there’s that at least, except he’s a long, spindly string bean and Clyde is—Jesus, he is something, over six feet of something.

“Hey there,” he says, eyes crinkling, and it’s like the first time they talked, face-to-face, except Stens knows now that that’s what he does instead of smiling. “How was your flight?”

Stensland can’t help it; _he_ smiles with what feels like his whole face, maybe his entire skinny, un-masculine body, from his mostly-combed hair down to his toes in their socks and sandals. “Oh, you know, it was a flight,” he says. Feeling uncharacteristically short of words, looking at Clyde. 

They both are, staring at each other for a long moment, and Stens doesn’t know if Clyde feels it, too, like they should do something, hug or—

“Got these for you,” Clyde says, breaking his train of thought and holding out a paper bag and a pink bottle. “They’re only from the Starbucks. I hope that’s all right. All they got here.“

Stens accepts the proffered gifts, stunned. “Strawberry milk and a scone?” he asks, dumbly. It feels as though there’s an essential gear stuck in his head.

“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, which Stens can see now, as he never could on video chat, has gone a bit red. _Bashful_ , that’s what the gesture is. Holy shit. “That’s your usual order, right? You said coffee makes you anxious so—”

And it’s not exactly an invitation to kiss him, except that’s all he wants to do, so he does, leans in before he can think better of it or think at all, catching Clyde squarely on the lips despite the awkward angle. They’re warm and soft, and his beard tickles ever so slightly. It’s not a long kiss, chaste, but it is firm, unmistakable, not the sort of thing he can play off as an accident if he’s very wrong about all this, and Jesus fuck, he _is_ usually wrong, so very wrong. Doesn’t know the last time he was right about anything.

“I, uh,” he says. Then looks around, panicked. “ _Shit!_ Should I have not done that in public? Is it, uh, legal here? Oh shit, I’m sorry, I’ve gotten you excommunicated, haven’t I? They’re going to send you away. I’ve corrupted you with my taco truck coastal elitism, where will you live—”

“Stensland,” Clyde says, slowly, calmly, _calming_ because he is. “It’s Charlotte. It’s a city. It’s all right. And my family don’t care about that kind of thing. They know me. Now, everybody else might not like it but…” He pauses, hesitating, before reaching out and pulling him closer. “Ain’t none of their damn business.”

In months of talking to him, he’s never heard Clyde swear. It makes him a little lightheaded. So does the way he’s holding him around the waist. The proximity of him. The flecks of gold in his eyes. Stensland puts a hand on his shoulder to steady himself.

“Great ghost of the Brawny Man,” he whispers before Clyde kisses him.

 

* * *

  

It’s later, much later, after Stensland’s met the collective Logans and step-Logans and someone named Earl who doesn’t say another word after "hello" all afternoon, except by sort of twinkling at people, and Clyde’s niece soundly trounces them all at Monopoly and Risk and Scrabble, and he’s eaten his weight in sweet potatoes and turkey and ham and pie and some amorphous green referred to as _collards_ and he limits himself only to a couple beers, but he’s still as drowsy as he’s ever been, _content_ , lolling against Clyde on the living room love seat, like they always do that. It's only then that he tells him about the list, about item number seven, not that he's making assumptions, not at all, only maybe, on account of the very nice kisses at and since the airport, maybe they could figure it out, and he doesn’t laugh at him, just smiles without smiling in that way he has, the way he’d been doing all along, Stens just didn’t always know, and Clyde takes his hand. Unprompted.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
